


Not Enough, Too Much

by Quipplepunk



Series: Sirius Black [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Burning, Cutting, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt, Insomnia, Liberal use of the word fuck, Needles, Overwhelmed, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Sensory Overload, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quipplepunk/pseuds/Quipplepunk
Summary: Alternate Title: You Shouldn't Be Alone, I'm Here IIAlternate Title II: Just Do What You Have ToSirius Black has PTSD. In this story, he experiences sensory overload, panic attacks, and uses various forms of self-harm in an attempt to control his trauma-soaked brain. Remus, ever the reliable friend, offers help. And sometimes witness is the only thing he can offer.
Relationships: Sirius Black & Remus Lupin
Series: Sirius Black [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709893
Kudos: 25





	Not Enough, Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> A fact: The third category of symptoms used to make a PTSD diagnosis is hyper-arousal. People with PTSD describe these symptoms as being on red-alert. They can feel a sensory overload, feel jumpy or easily startled. Insomnia can occur from excess adrenaline and physiological over activity. Hyper-arousal also refers to emotions, such as having a quick temper or feeling overly sensitive.

Sirius cuts when he feels like he’s not enough. He cuts when he feels unworthy or worthless. He’ll cut when he feels nothing, just numb. He cuts when he feels empty or raw. He cuts when he feels shame or guilt. He cuts when he feels sad, alone, scared, tired, or helpless. 

Sirius also cuts when he feels like he’s too much. 

The smell of the smoke from the fire in the common room is too strong. The smell of James’s feet propped up over the back of the couch is nauseating. The dust from the library books spread out in front of Remus is suffocating. Peter’s cologne is giving Sirius a headache. 

The crackling of the fire is too loud. The creaks from the rocking chair across the room is too high pitched and much too repetitive. Flipping pages, scratching quills, breathing – overwhelming. It’s all setting Sirius’s hair on end. 

The fire’s flickering light is dizzying. Lily in the rocking chair is casting a shadow that makes Sirius brace for an attack each time it approaches. The small movements from the turning pages, the fluttering of the feathers above writing hands, the rocking of the chair, all of it makes Sirius twitch. He’s becoming exhausted as his attention tears around the common room, taking in every little change. 

Sirius’s clothes are too coarse. The collar of his shirt is choking him. His seat is too hard. The books are too heavy. The desk is too rough. The feather tickling his hand is irritating. Sirius can feel every footstep on the floor bouncing his chair and making him feel motion sick. 

The taste of leather is lingering in the back of Sirius’s throat. 

Briskly, Sirius stands and darts out of the common room. He leaves behind everything, his bag, school work, wand, everything. When he bursts into the dorm room, he dives towards his bed. As he moves, he rips off his shirt and tosses it to the side. He lifts his mattress and yanks out a plastic baggie. He fishes around in the bag and pulls out a packet of needles. Withdrawing one needle, Sirius stabs himself in the upper arm over and over, as if poking air holes for a creature kept inside. 

Sirius growls to himself. He feels hot. Too hot. He bends the needle into an angle and flings it across the room. He sheds his pants, and then prods around in the small bag again. He pulls out a small razor. It has a little bit of rust on it. Sirius holds the blade to his thigh and slowly, deliberately, presses the sharp edge across his skin. The cut streaks dark red blood. Sirius watches drops turn into a thin stream. He feels cold. Too cold. 

Sirius holds the razor between his teeth as he picks around in the baggie. He pulls out an individually wrapped alcohol wipe and tears it open. With one swift motion, he slides the wipe up his leg along the blood trail, holding it firmly in place once he reached the cut. Sirius’s leg twitches, but it does not sting. The wipe does little to clean up the blood. Carefully, Sirius lifts his hand from the wound, leaving the wipe stuck over the cut. He is shaking. 

Dumping the contents on the bag on the bed and spitting the blade out of his mouth, Sirius runs a hand across his sweaty forehead and tugs on his tangled hair. He picks up a roll of gauze and glances at his leg before tossing it aside and uncovering a screw from the pile of alcohol wipes. He snatches up the screw and clumsily makes his way to the wardrobe across the room. 

Crawling in and shutting himself inside, Sirius sighs. The tension in his shoulders eases. He hugs his knees, careful not to rip off the wipe still stuck to his thigh. He is grasping the screw in a tight fist. Sirius rocks himself back and forth. The clothes in the wardrobe feel suffocating and Sirius shoves them out of the way. He curls in on himself again, counting his breaths. Nerves prickle and tingle all over Sirius’s body. He cannot help but sway along to his pounding heart. Everything is quiet and dark. Everything is still. Then, the wardrobe is too hot. It is too small and too smelly, like charcoal and copper, maybe some sulfur. Sirius cannot slow his breaths no matter how hard he tries. His chest hurts. His ears are ringing. His skin burns. He shivers, his body covered in sweat. He stumbles out of the wardrobe and spills onto the floor of the dorm room. 

He lays on the floor, crying. 

He knows there isn’t a fireplace in the room, but he can’t help but check each time one appears in the corner of his eye. He knows Gryffindor’s colors are gold and scarlet, but the curtains on the beds look black to him. Sirius knows there is no one and nothing in the room with him, certainly nothing making noise. Yet he hears an echo of a sound that is familiar but he cannot place, he cannot name. 

Sirius feels heavy. He forces himself to roll from his back to his front. After a moment, he squeezes his eyes shut and shifts into a crawling position. This is as far as Sirius is able to make himself move for a long moment. He doesn’t breathe much. He doesn’t even shake. He is stiff, frozen. 

Hearing a hand on the doorknob, Sirius springs to life. He flings a blanket over the pile of things from the baggie. Sirius is rooting around in the pockets of his coat when Remus enters the room. 

“Sirius, please don’t smoke on the roof in just your underwear,” Remus says, a gentle lilt in his voice. 

Sirius scoffs and casts a sideways look at Remus. Sirius pulls a lighter out of a pocket in the coat and says, “Fine. Then I’ll smoke in the bathroom.” 

Remus follows Sirius into the bathroom. “Hey,” Remus says pointedly. 

“What?” Sirius barks out, hurrying into a stall and locking the door. 

“Sirius…” Remus runs a hand through his hair and rubs the back of his neck. 

“What?” Sirius spits out through gritted teeth. 

“Please don’t… What can I… Do you want to talk…” Remus sighs deeply. He takes slow steps over to the stall Sirius is in and sits on the floor, leaning against the door. 

“What are you doing?” Sirius hisses. 

“You just do what you have to do,” Remus says softly. 

“Remus!” Sirius bites out. 

“Yeah?” 

“Leave me alone!” Remus says and does nothing, so Sirius continues, “Get out!” Sirius kicks the stall door. 

“No.” 

“What do you mean ‘no!?’ Leave me the fuck alone! Get the fuck out! Go the fuck away!” 

“You do what you have to do. But I’m not leaving.” 

Sirius’s face is red and twisted into a fierce glare. His hands are balled up into fists around the screw and the lighter. Every muscle in his body is tense, quaking. “REMUS!” Sirius yells as he shoves the stall door open, breaking the lock and sending Remus face-first onto the floor. The door bangs back toward Sirius and he slams it into the wall as Remus scrambles to his feet. Remus’s face is slack except for one eyebrow that twitches up slightly. For a moment, neither of them breathe or move. 

Thoughts of exactly how to tell Remus off stream through Sirius’s head. He grits his teeth and takes a short breath to say something, but the words that come to him feel wrong. The words Sirius finds are foreign to him. But the words pound in his head, repeating in loops, over and over. Eventually, Remus blinks. Sirius’s mind swirls and he drops his hands to his sides. Sirius’s body screams in pain as his muscles lose their tension. He sways a little and shakes his head in an attempt to rid himself of his dizziness. When Sirius can make his eyes focus again, he sees Remus standing in the middle of the room, watching him. 

Guilt and shame crashes in on Sirius. 

Sirius steps back into the stall. The door won’t shut properly and the lock is useless. “Fucking hell,” Sirius mutters under his breath. He opens the door and can only bring himself to look at Remus’s shoes as he fumbles around for the door to the second stall. 

“No,” Remus says, crossing the room in two long, swift strides. Remus reaches out to close the door Sirius is opening but when he does, Sirius cowers. Remus pauses then slowly places his hand on the door, pushing it closed. Only when Remus shifts so that he’s no longer facing Sirius fully does Sirius breathe. “Sit?” Remus says very quietly and begins to lower himself onto the floor. Sirius does not move. 

Sometimes, Sirius feels frozen when he feels like he’s not enough. When he feels shame or guilt or like he has been a bad friend, he feels stuck. If he were to move, it would only be to cut. Sometimes, Sirius feels like he’s too much. When he is overwhelmed even the thought of moving could push him over the edge into a raging panic that would end with him bloody on the floor. 

Sometimes, Sirius feels like he’s not enough and like he’s too much all at the same time. 

“Sirius…” Remus says, stopping halfway to the floor and standing again. “Sirius? Are you with me?” Sirius does nothing. His eyes are glazed over. His breathing is shallow. Remus looks around the bathroom, frantically searching. He stops himself when he realizes that he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. He slowly and gently puts his hands on Sirius’s forearms. “Sirius?” he says quietly, softly squeezing Sirius’s arms. 

Sirius swallows hard. It makes a loud sound and Sirius’s eyes bulge out a little. His head bows and he takes a strained breath, almost like he has forgotten how his lungs work. His jaw is clenched and his muscles are tense. He leans into Remus just a bit. 

“Sirius?” Remus tries once more. Sirius starts to breathe quickly and his eyes dart from side to side. “Hey, hey, hey,” Remus says soothingly. He presses on Sirius’s arms lightly and persists until Sirius begins to sit down on the floor. Remus lowers himself along with Sirius. “It’s ok. It’s ok. It’s ok,” Remus chants as Sirius gasps for breath, whimpering and choking. 

Sirius curls in on himself and he rocks as he cries, still struggling to breath. Remus sits across from him, knees touching knees. Suddenly, Sirius sits up straight. One deep, shaky breath, then he scrambles around on the floor, grabbing at nothing. Remus sits back, watching, worried. Then Sirius’s hands finally find the lighter. His trembling hands struggle to flick a flame to life. He hunches over, huddled over the flame held under his wrist. 

“Sirius? What are you…” Remus winces when he sees. 

Sirius is mesmerized and doesn’t notice Remus’s presence until Remus scoots across the floor to sit next to him. Sirius flinches and pulls away from Remus. The pain suddenly blossoms into Sirius’s psyche and he gasps. He grips his wrist and holds it close to his chest. 

The pain of the burn is constant. The intensity of the smells of shampoos, toilet water, and the alcohol wipe still stuck to his upper arm are cut in half by the nagging of the pain. The bright bathroom light and overwhelming off-white colors are dulled. Thoughts, heartbeats, and breathing are quieter. The coolness of the hard floor is uncomfortable, but at least the pain keeps his body awake enough to keep the numbness at bay. The taste of leather and copper is gone, for now.


End file.
